Authors: Barbara Cartland
Grania gave a little laugh.
“Aye, aye, Sir! Or is that only what the English sailors say?
“Tomorrow I will teach you what to say in French,” the
Comte
replied, “but now you are to go to bed and sleep. I think you have been through enough dramatics for one night.”
She smiled at him and he walked ahead of her to open the cabin door. The man who had fetched the trunks with Abe followed and put them tidily against one wall.
“Do you want me to open them now?” the
Comte
asked.
Grania shook her head.
“I have everything I need in the one you have opened already.”
The
Comte
extinguished one of the lanterns which were hanging from the ceiling and lifted down the other to place it beside the bed.
He undid the little glass door so that it was easy for her to extinguish it.
“Is there anything else you want?”
“No, nothing,” she replied, “and thank you. I am so happy to be here that I just want to keep saying ‘Thank You’ over and over again.”
“You can thank me tomorrow,” the
Comte
said, “but now I think it important for you to rest.
Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle, dormez
bi
en
.”
“
Bon soir, mon Capitaine
,”
Grania replied.
Then she was alone.
When Grania awoke it was to feel the rolling of the ship, hear the creaking of the boards, the straining of the wind in the sails, and somewhere far away in the distance the noise of voices and laughter.
For a moment she could not think where she was, then she remembered that she was at sea, far away from Roderick Maigrin and from the fear that had been like a stone in her breast.
“I am safe! I am safe!” she wanted to cry, and knew she was happy because she was with the
Comte.
She had gone to sleep very conscious that her head was on his pillow, that she lay on the mattress on which he had slept, and was covered by the sheet that had been his.
She felt close to him as she had felt when she ran into him in the darkness and had hidden her face against his chest.
She was conscious then of the warmth of his body
even before she had known the strength of his arms and felt in her dreams, he was still holding her.
She sat up in bed and pushed her hair back from her forehead.
She was sure that she had slept for a long time and it must be late, yet it did not matter if it was.
There was no Parson waiting for her, no Roderick Maigrin trying to touch her, no horrors lurking amongst the trees or in the house.
“I am safe!” Grania said again, and got out of bed.
By the time she was dressed she knew she was hungry. At the same time she did not hurry.
She found a small mirror amongst her other things and took a long time brushing her hair and arranging it in the way she had worn it in London, and which her mother had thought was very becoming.
Then she found a gown that was one of her prettiest, and only when the tiny mirror told her that she looked very elegant did she open the cabin door to the blinding sunshine.
The deck that had seemed deserted before was now full of activity.
There were men at the ropes, men climbing up and down the masts, and the sails were billowing out in the sea breeze.
The sea was dazzlingly blue and the gulls were whirling overhead and making a great deal of noise about it.
Grania stood looking around. She knew that she was looking for only one man and when she saw him she felt her heart give a leap as if she had been afraid he would not be there.
He was at the wheel, and she thought that with his hands on the spokes, his head lifted as if he searched the far horizon, no man could look more handsome or more omnipotent, as if he was not only Captain of his ship, but master of everything he surveyed.
She would have gone towards him, but he saw her and gave the wheel over to another man and came walking towards her.
As he joined her she saw his eyes travel over her, and there was a faint smile on his lips as if he realised the trouble she had taken to make herself look attractive and was appreciative.
‘I am so very late,” Grania said because she felt he was waiting for her to speak.
“
It is almost midday,” he replied. “Would you wait for luncheon, or would you like to have the breakfast you missed this morning?”
“I will wait,” Grania replied, because she wished to stay with him.
He put his arm through hers and led her along the deck stopping every few steps to introduce her in turn to men working at the ropes.
“This is Pierre, this is Jacques, this is Andre, and this is Leo.”
Only later did Grania know that three of the men on board had been very rich when they left Martinique.
Two were planters in the same way that the
Comte
considered himself one, and had owned a large number of slaves, the third, Leo, was a Lawyer with the biggest practice in St. Pierre, the Capital of Martinique.
She was to learn that they showed their courage in the way they were never bitter about the fate that had swept their possessions from them, but merely optimistic that one day their fortunes would change and they would return home to claim what they had lost.
The rest of the men aboard were the personal servants of the
Comte
and his friends together with several young clerks from Leo’s office, all of whom were deeply grateful for the privilege of escaping with him when they might have been imprisoned or forced to work for their conquerors.
In the next two days while they were at sea Grania learned it was not only a busy ship but a happy one.
From first thing in the morning until last thing at
night the crew sang, whistled and laughed amongst themselves as they worked.
None of the men were trained seamen, and the mere running of the ship required not only all their intelligence, but the use of muscles they had not employed before.
It appeared to Grania as if they made it a game, and she would lean over the rail of the poop-deck watching them, listening to them singing and cracking jokes with each other, and often tossing a coin to decide who would climb the tall raking spars to trim the sails.
She noticed that even amongst his friends the
Comte
appeared always to be in command, always the leader.
She had the feeling, and was sure she was not wrong that they trusted him just as she did. He gave them a sense of safety, and without him they too would have been afraid.
She had thought when she went aboard the ship that she would be alone with the Comte, but this was something that did not happen.
Always there seemed to be so much for him to do, always too he appeared to be looking out for danger.
Whenever the look-out reported a ship on the horizon they made off in another direction, and Grania was not certain at first whether this was something he would have done if she had not been on board.
She had also thought that they would have meals together, but she learned that the
Comte’s
three friends always had dinner with him and when they were at sea luncheon was a meal through which everybody went on working.
Henri the Chef prepared cups of soup which the men drank as they performed their duties. There was also cheese or pate, placed between long pieces of French bread, sliced horizontally.
Grania ate like the others, either on deck or, when she was tired of the sunshine, alone in her cabin while she read a book.
She found the
Comte’s
books not only interesting but also intriguing.
She had guessed that he would enjoy Rousseau and Voltaire, but she had not expected that he would have a large collection of poetry books, and English poetry at that, or that he would also have several religious books on the shelves.
“I suppose he is a Catholic,” she said to herself.
Perhaps it was due to the air or the movement of the ship, or maybe because she was content and happy, that Grania slept in the
Comte’s
bed deeply and dreamlessly, as if she was a child, to wake with a feeling of excitement because it was the beginning of another day.
Then late one afternoon, after the heat was over they came in sight of St. Martin.
At dinner the previous night the
Comte
and his friends had told Grania that the smallest territory in the world was shared by two sovereign states.
“Why?” Grania had asked.
Leo, who was the Lawyer, laughed.
“According to legend,” he said, “the Dutch and the French prisoners of war who had been brought to the island in 1648 to destroy the Spanish Fort and buildings came from their hiding-places after the Spanish had been routed and realised they had an island to share.”
“By peaceful means,” Jacques interposed.
“They had had enough of fighting,” the
Comte
added, “and so the boundaries were decided by a walking contest.”
Grania laughed.
“How can they have done that?”
“A Frenchman and a Dutchman,” Leo explained, “started at the same spot and walked around the island in opposite directions, having agreed that the boundary line should be drawn straight across the island where they met.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Grania cried. “Why can they not do something so simple on the other islands?”
“Because the others are much larger,” Leo replied.
“The Frenchman’s walking-pace was stimulated by wine, so that he went faster than the Dutchman who was actually slowed down because he preferred his own Dutch gin.”
All the men laughed, but Leo said:
“Whatever the origin of the boundary, the French and Dutch have lived in harmony ever since.”
“That is what I call very, very sensible,” Grania said. For the first time since she had come aboard the
Comte
stayed behind after his three friends had left the cabin. Grania looked at him enquiringly and he said:
“I have something to suggest to you, but I am rather afraid you will not like it.”
“What is it?” Grania asked apprehensively.
The
Comte
did not answer for a moment, and she realised he was looking at her hair.
“Is ... anything wrong?”
“I was just thinking how beautiful you are,” he said, “and it would certainly be wrong for me to change you in any way, but it is something which I think is important.”
“What is?”
“I have to think of you,” the
Comte
said, “and not only your safety but also your reputation.”
“In what way?”
“When we arrive at St. Martin, even though my house is very isolated you can well imagine that in the space of only twenty-one square miles everything is known and gossiped about.”
Grania nodded.
“That is why I think you must change your identity.”
“You mean ... I must not be ... English?”
“The French, even in St. Martin, are very patriotic.”
“Then can I be French, like you?”
“That is of course what I would like you to be,” the
Comte
replied, “and I thought I could introduce you as my cousin,
Mademoiselle
Gabrielle de Vence.”
“I shall be delighted to be your cousin.”
“There is one difficulty.”
“What is that?”
“You do not look in the least French, but, if I may say so, very English.”
I always thought that my eye-lashes, which are dark, I owe to my Irish ancestry.”
“But your hair which is like sunshine is as obvious as any Union Jack.”
Grania laughed.
“I think I am insulted that you should think it is red, white and blue!”
“What I am suggesting is that it should be a different colour,” the
Comte
said quietly.
She looked at him in astonishment.
“Are you asking me to ... dye my hair?”
“I have talked to Henri,” he said, “and he has distilled what he calls ‘a rinse’ which is easily washed out when you wish to revert to your own nationality.” Grania looked doubtful, but the
Comte
went on:
“I promise you it is not black or anything unpleasant. It will just change the shining gold of your hair to something a little more ordinary, the colour that a Frenchwoman could easily own, although she would never, I am afraid, have a skin so clean and soft that it is like the petals of a camelia.”
Grania gave a little smile.
“That sounds very poetic.”